Field of Blood by Wilson, Eric (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📕

“Once I tell you, you’ll be responsible for what you know.”

“Is that a good thing, or bad?”

“It just is,” he said.

Gina’s gaze lighted again on the Trail of Tears marker, and she debated whether it was a bad omen or just a counterpoint to her recent struggles. “Well, Cal, I’m all for responsibility, and I’m tired of wondering. Plus, if it’s my key to life eternal, maybe I can market it. Sell postcards and T-shirts, or something.”

He turned to face her. “The mark has nothing to do with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You being immortal is a whole separate issue.”

“So the mark’s meaningless? What’re you getting at?”

He brushed the hair back over her head, exposing the symbol she had long tried to hide—and which no one else, except a village prefect long ago, seemed to have had any awareness of.

She felt naked beneath his scrutiny. “Well?”

“There’s these light blue lines, almost like veins.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Tracing her skin, his fingers were dry, yet smooth—the way leather might feel after years of wear and tear—and their touch caused something to swell in her chest. A bittersweet desire. She’d always been drawn to those with links to her homeland, but this seemed to go beyond that. It made no sense to feel deeply for a man who had shared only a few incidents in her past.

Confused by her yearning, she slipped back into sarcasm.

“Is it a tumor?”

He frowned at that.

“Kidding,” she said. “Just a joke.”

Even his reaction tugged at her, and she told herself to be cautious. She’d always had genuine concern for the downtrodden and the orphans, and she found herself susceptible now that the same concern was turned her direction.

Cal’s green eyes were locked onto her.

“What?” she said. “Do I look like a charity case?”

“You look like a beautiful young woman.”

She tapped the ring on her finger. “Married. Don’t you forget it.”

“I hope he’s good to you.”

“Jed? He’s the best.”

She meant it, and she tamped down any thoughts otherwise. Cal had information she needed, and that alone was her reason for being here beside him on the riverfront steps.

“So,” Gina said. “We’ve established that it’s not a tumor.”

“I already know what it is. You’ve been Lettered.”

“Lettered in varsity track and field, if that counts.”

“The letter Tav, Gina. Or Tau. It’s from the ancient Hebrew alphabet. Almost like an x with soft little curls on the ends. Over the centuries, it’s been simplified and used by all sortsa people. Basically, a cross. Some call it the Roman Cross, or the crux commissa. Saint Francis of Assisi, he even used it as part of his crest.”

“Okay. And?”

“You ever seen those people on Ash Wednesday, wearing the Sign of the Cross on their foreheads? It all comes from the same original story.”

“This is sounding like Nikki now. Snoozeville.”

“You wanna know?” he said. “Or you gonna make jokes?”

She stared off over the meandering river. “What’s it mean for me, Cal? You come waltzing in to my work—after quite the long absence, I might add—and start making these wild claims. Like I’m supposed to believe you. Well, give me something real.” She tapped his chest with her fist. “Something tangible.”

“I’ll give you what I know. You’ll have to decide from there.”

“Loads of fun. Hit me with it.”

“First, lemme guess. This symbol appeared on your twelfth birthday.”

“Hey. There’s no way you could—”

“Gina, listen. There’s all kindsa stuff that got lost in your past, jumbled up and bled away. I know how strong you’ve had to become. That’s good. You’re trying to move forward and put the old things behind you, and I admire that. But now you’ve got this wall of cynicism up, to keep anything else from getting in.”

“I won’t deny it. What? Is that a problem for you?”

His eyes softened, drifting down to hers.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just—”

“No, Gina. It’s okay. If I wanna get to the bottom of things, I’m sure to stir up some mud.”

“That’s me. Ol’ muddy waters.”

“That’s not what I see,” he said. “Not at all.”

As Cal spoke, he ran the pad of his finger up left, down right, up left, down right, over the mark. Gina felt cool tingling spread across her scalp—a cup of pure water, of snowmelt, emptying over her head and running down into her hair.

How else could she explain the sensation?

She resisted labeling moments such as these, although she’d had them before a time or two. She hedged against the fanaticism of her mother and ran screaming from anything that smacked of spiritual arm-twisting. Put enough people in a room—or an N. K. Lazarescu session—and a skilled communicator could work them into a blather over just about anything.

But could there be a seed of truth in all her mom’s talk? Something unmarred and radiant that lay hidden beneath heaps of crusty religion?

In Gina’s mind’s eye, somewhere behind these lines etched into her thick skull, she watched colorful glass shards begin to float into place, bumping softly, easing, joining, becoming one. In Romania, she’d seen meticulous craftsmanship just like it, broken stone turned into works of art.

She stared off past Cal’s shoulder. Lifting her chin. Afraid to blink.

“Can you just tell me the story?” she said.

“Sure thing.”

CHAPTER

FORTY

“It’s from the ninth chapter of Ezekiel,” Cal Nichols explained. “God instructs this guy carrying a writer’s case to go through the streets of Jerusalem and to start marking the foreheads of those who sigh and weep for the sins they see all around. Each of the ones that got Lettered, they were spared from the wrath to come.”

“Final Vengeance,” Gina said.

“A foreshadowing, maybe. These people, they were not to be touched during that particular day of judgment, because of the sorrow they’d carried with them, mourning for a world gone mad.”

“Is that what you think of this place?”

“Me? I see beauty, and lots of amazing things. Everywhere I go, I’m running into people with big hearts and love that won’t quit. That’s why we need you, Gina. If this all pans out, I mean. We’ve gotta